A Time For Peace
by Frostfyre7
Summary: There is a time for everything, and a season to all things under heaven. In the light of a funeral pyre, the Doctor decides the time is come for him to make peace with some ghosts of the past...
1. Prologue: Ghosts

**Author's Note: This idea ambushed me while walking to class. I blame autumn weather. :) Anyway, it is at the moment only a pair of one shots. I may add on to it as ideas occur to me. Enjoy!**

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The flames crackle, a bright flare on the end of his torch. He stands by the stacked wood, the smell of herbs and sweet oils heavy in his nostrils. They are the closest approximations he could find to those traditionally used in the funeral rites of his–_their_–lost homeworld. Would _he_ have appreciated the irony, laughed at as he might have in their long-ago childhood? Or would he have sneered, and mocked, and shown only contempt that his old adversary clung so desperately to the customs of a world they had both forsaken? 

Well...now he'll never know. The dead keep their secrets from him, and always have. A mystery of this Creation he's never found an answer to.

He is alone up here, on these white cliffs of a small, out of the way planet that has been his battleground so often over the centuries. Just him and the wrapped, silent corpse. And what is he, but a corpse who hasn't remembered to stop breathing yet? Right now, at this time and in this place, he feels again the black despair he felt when he awoke after that last battle to find himself still alive. Alone, with the memory of Gallifrey burning vivid in his mind's eye.

And now, as a new seasoning, the bitter taste of irony. How many times had they battled one another across time and space, but mostly here on this little world? How many times had he left his adversary for dead, only to find him popping up again somewhere else like a damn weed? All those centuries, and the years after the war–which seemed longer than all his centuries together, though it had not been even half of one–alone in the empty vastness where once he'd heard his people, only to find that he was not, after all, the last. That his friend and enemy of old had, once again, survived.

Hope is a terrible thing. The writers never tell you how much it _hurts_. He'd known, even as the story of a pocketwatch tumbled from Martha's lips, he'd _known_ who it would be, and found himself caught between a terrible fear and an equally terrible despair. Yana was a good man–if he could only persuade him to _hang on_ to that self, to deny the other...

But hope betrayed him. And the worst thing, the most terrible irony of all, had followed. All those battles, in which they had done their best to end the other, and in the end it had been _him_, the eternal architect of his enemy's defeat, begging him not to die, to survive like he always had, not to leave him alone...Hope had lived again, that maybe with time and care they could be friends as they once had been, oath-brothers and allies.

Hope died with his enemy. He was alone. He would always be alone.

His eyes burn as he thrusts the torch into the pyre and watches the flames leap up, eager against the black backdrop of sea and sky. Smoke billows, and he moves several paces away to watch the corpse consumed.

And, strange thing: as smoke and sparks spiral up into the night he feels his hearts ease a little in their grief. Perhaps...perhaps this is not a thing of dark despair. Perhaps in death his ancient adversary has finally found the peace he never found in his tormented life. Perhaps, after all, it is for the best.

Peace can be a more soothing friend than hope. He realizes, in a sudden moment of clarity, that maybe it's time he found a little peace of his own.

There is a time for everything, and a season for all things under heaven. Standing in firelight of the Master's funeral pyre, the Doctor realizes that the time has come for him to make peace with some ghosts


	2. Chapter 1: The Teacher

Maggie offers to drive her home, but she makes up an excuse about her grand-niece coming to fetch her. It's a lie–her niece is in Scotland, at school–but she wants to be alone and can't face the pity she knows will appear on the younger woman's face. So she smiles, and thanks her and the last few lingerers, and remains on the picnic bench while they scatter toward their cars. She watches Maggie, and feels a brief stab of envy for the easy movement of a thirty year old body. Hell, most days she'd happily settle for a _fifty_ year old body, if only it would get her up the stairs to her flat without having to stop and wait for her knees to stop howling.

The plaque in her hands is cold, her old woman's body heat too little to keep it warmed in the cooling evening air. _With Gratitude, For Forty Years of Service..._ Forty years. God, had it really been so long? And what did she have to show for it, but bad knees and an aching back? A few bright students, maybe, but they were too busy with their own lives to remember an aging, freshly retired history teacher from a poorly funded school in a downtrodden neighborhood they'd just as soon forget. A lonely flat, and little family life to speak of. No husband, or children. Somehow, she'd never found the time.

_Once, I helped save worlds..._

That part of her life has been locked away, hidden under a lame explanation for the missing three years, a bright and terrifying jewel she never brings out, for fear that the weight of the mundane will somehow tarnish it. Ian has been dead this past decade, that bright soul felled by a heart attack. There is no one to talk about it with, anymore.

So here she is. Seventy two years old, sitting on a park bench surrounded by limp streamers and dying balloons, the debris of her retirement bash. The well-wishes of her former coworkers still echo in her ears.

She feels so hollow.

Movement catches her eye. She looks up to see a man ambling across the summer-faded grass in her general direction. He is a young man, perhaps thirty, and tall, with a slender frame made the slimmer by a smart, close-cut brown suit. The effect of the suit is spoiled somewhat by his untidy brown hair, the unbuttoned shirt collar and loosely dangling tie, the absurd, brightly colored Converse trainers, and by the fact that he has both hands stuck in his trouser pockets. Still, there is something carefree about his odd clothes, and in the slouched, comfortable manner he has of walking. He is singing some silly pub-tune in a slightly off-key tenor, completely unselfconscious. She was never so careless of others' eyes, not even as a child. Watching him, and with old memories hovering near the surface, she is suddenly reminded of another young person who had that same quality, unheeding and uncaring of how odd she might look to another. Susan, that fey child...she hasn't thought of her in _years_, her memory tucked away with everything else to do with that portion of her life.

She sighs, and stares down at the plaque in her hands. What would the stranger say, were she to go up to him and say _"I helped save worlds, once. I saw distant galaxies. I __**lived**__ the history I taught. And all I've got to show for it is this sorry little piece of wood and metal."_

He would think her insane. And maybe she is. Sometimes she wonders whatever possessed her to trade the splendor of Creation for a drafty, dingy classroom and uncaring teenagers.

A shadow falls across her lap. She looks up, startled, into the young man's handsome face. He is smiling at her, a crooked, charming smile that makes her wish, briefly, that she was thirty years younger.

"Hello, Barbara."

His voice is as warm as his smile and has the accent of a south Londoner, but she feels a stab of panic. Should she know him? Is he one of the newer teachers, come too late for the party? A student's parent? No, surely not. She'd remember someone as noticeable as him, and her memory is one thing age _hasn't_ dulled. So who is he, then? A nutter who stalks elderly women? But a lifetime of ingrained politeness overrides even a city-dweller's wariness. "I'm sorry–do I know you?"

His smile widens, the late afternoon sunlight sparking in the stubble on his chin and jaw as he drops down to crouch on the grass in front of her. "Oh yes, Barbara Wright. Only I'm afraid you don't recognize me."

Nutter, then. But the schoolteacher reacts instinctively to the ridiculous statement. "That simply doesn't make any sense, young man," she says primly. "Whatever do you mean? Who are you?"

The laugh lines around his eyes deepen–perhaps he's a bit older than thirty–and he tilts his head. "Once upon a time, Barbara," he says, "a long time ago, I kidnaped you and a stodgy chap called Ian and dragged you protesting across space and time."

Her jaw sags, her heart gives a shocked, painful lurch. It isn't possible. It just isn't. She can't be hearing those words from a stranger's lips.

And yet...belief is a funny thing. So is hope.

"D-Doctor?" Her hand flies to her throat, an old gesture of confusion and unease. "B-but...no. No, that isn't possible. You can't be him. He was–he was an old man..."

"Ironic, isn't it? I was quite a young man then, whatever my face and manner said. Young and foolish." His smile fades. "Now I'm an old man, wearing another face."

It's impossible, ridiculous. She remembers the Doctor vividly: fussy in manner and dress, stoop-shouldered and silver-haired. Not young and charmingly untidy. Cold, arrogant blue eyes, not warm brown. And yet...

She looks into his dark eyes, and they are not the eyes of a young man. They seem even older than the eyes that stare back at her every day from the mirror.

His eyes are impossibly deep. Staring into them, she feels as though she teeters on the edge of the universe, on the verge of plunging into something dangerous and exhilarating. It is a feeling she has only ever experienced with two people: Susan Foreman, and her grandfather, the strange, crotchety old man who called himself only "the Doctor."

"Oh, my God," she breathes. "It's _you_..."

He gets to his feet, extending a hand to her. "Walk with me for awhile?"

She hesitates for only a moment, then his long, too-cool fingers close around hers and she allows him to pull her to her feet. For a few heartbeats, the ground beneath her feet seems fluid, unstable...then her ever-practical mind decides simply to _accept_, and the world is solid once more. He tucks her hand through his arm and they begin a slow stroll around the park. He says nothing. He seems to be giving her time to find her voice again. That isn't like the man she remembers, brusque and impatient.

She locates her voice finally. "Are–are you really him?"

"Yes." The smile appears again, quicksilver and charming. "I had some work done," he adds cheekily. She glares at him, and he laughs. "There's the glare I remember! I was afraid age had mellowed you."

Well, he was still rude. "I suppose...it's because you aren't human?"

"Something like that," he agrees. "I'm afraid I change faces the way some people change houses. This is...oh...nine faces out from the one you knew."

She blinks. "Good heavens." Then, with a tenuous smile of her own, "I don't suppose it's something you can teach a class on is it? I could do with a new face."

He chuckles. "There's nothing wrong with the one you have. It's perfectly lovely."

"It's old, and wrinkled. And when did you learn charming? I don't remember you being such a flatterer." She is beginning to relax, and recognizes with the shock of familiarity that the man beside her engenders the same instinctive trust she remembers.

"I wasn't, but I got a lot better at it later on. For some reason, it worked better than shouting at people..."

"Imagine that," she murmurs. They walk on in silence for a few minutes. "Doctor..."

"Yes?"

"Why–why are you here? Why have you come...now?"

His steps slow, and he comes to a stop, withdrawing his arm from hers. He looks...uncomfortable, almost. "I..." He stops, and rubs his hand over his hair, leaving it standing up at crazy angles. Barbara feels a sudden, maternal urge to smooth it down. Finally he sighs, and gestures toward a nearby chess table. "Shall we sit down? Only it's a bit of a story."

She allows him to seat her on one of the hard stone seats, while he takes the one opposite. He leans both elbows on the table, studying his hands.

"It's...actually, it's an extremely long story. It's been, what...three, four decades since you last saw me?"

"Something like that."

"For me, it's been over eight centuries."

Her mouth forms a shocked, silent "oh!" He looks up at her expression and nods wryly.

"Told you I was an old man."

"You're _eight hundred_ years old?"

"Actually, it's more like nine hundred." He hesitates, and looks a little sheepish. "No, really, it's over a thousand, actually, but I don't really like owning up to it. Call it a bit of a midlife crisis if you like, though really it's because humans seem to freak out less at 'nine hundred' than they do at 'ooh, a thousand'–"

"I see you've taken up babbling as well as flattery," she observes dryly.

"Live as long as I do, and you're bound to pick up a few bad habits," he admits. "But anyway..." He sighs. "I won't bore you with the details of everything I've done these last eight hundred years. You remember the Daleks?"

She shudders. "Of course."

"Well...they didn't get any nicer. And in the end, my people went to war with them and–" He swallows, hard, and Barbara senses a wealth of unspoken tragedy. "Anyway. I–I've realized that it's long past time I made peace with my ghosts, as it were." He lifts his gaze to hers. "So here I am."

"I'm...one of your ghosts."

His fleeting grin puts in another appearance, along with a dimple she hadn't noticed. She just can't reconcile _charming_ and _dimples_ and _smiles a lot_ with _arrogant, crotchety_, and _self-centered old git._ "Oh, don't take it like that, Barbara! You're one of the few _good_ ones I've got!" He sobers, and reaches across the table to grasp her hand. "I came to thank you," he says gravely.

"Thank me? Whatever for?!"

"For being my teacher, Barbara. You have been one of the chief voices of my conscience this last eight hundred years." The dimple puts in a feeble appearance on the end of a wry, self-mocking smile. "You remember what I was like, I trust?"

She doesn't trust herself to respond to _that_, so settles for a nod instead.

"Between you, Ian, and my granddaughter you browbeat a selfish, arrogant fool into opening his eyes to the bigger picture. When I first ran away from–from Gallifrey, I was only interested in being left alone to pursue _my_ interests. I dragged Susan along for company, but mostly so I'd have someone to boss around. I admit, I _still_ like having someone to boss about, but that's neither here nor there.

"Point is, Barbara–thanks to you and your insufferably righteous behavior and your damn bloody morals...I changed. You saw the start of that even while you still traveled with me, but it went a lot farther than that. Thanks in large part to you," he says, with another dry smile, "I'm the arrogant, insufferable crusader I am today. All the times I've saved this planet, or the galaxy, or any number of other things that needed saving–that was down to you."

Her face is hot, and her throat tight, but she manages to say, "Made a habit of it, did you?"

His grin appears in all its crooked glory. "Oh, yes! I'm a firebrand these days, ask anyone." But she does not miss the flicker of grief in his eyes, and she knows that although he is sincere in his thanks, the things he claims to have learnt from her have not come without a heavy price.

In an effort to shift the subject to happier matters she asks: "How is Susan? I was just thinking about her..."

It's the wrong question. For a moment, she feels breathless at the pain she sees in his dark, deep eyes. But then it is gone, shuttered away behind a mask. "She...is at peace." He looks away, and she dares not ask further. She doesn't need to; his expression says only too clearly that Susan is dead.

"I see," she says lamely. An awkward silence descends.

Finally he rises. "Barbara Wright, will you grant an old man a favor?"

She shakes her head at his use of the word 'old.' For all the age she sees in his eyes, it is hard to forget the young face looking down at her. "Of course, Doctor."

He smiles. "Will you take a trip with me, for old times' sake? Just a short one?"

She gets slowly to her feet. "I don't know–as I recall, you never could manage 'just' anything. You hardly ever even got the time right. And I'm far too old to run away from monsters."

"I promise it'll be sedate." His eyes twinkle at her, and that is an expression she remembers from the old Doctor she'd known. All these years, centuries and decades, and he's still an irrepressible rogue.

"All right, then." She reaches out and takes his hand. He leads her out of the park and around a corner, and she smiles at the sight of the old blue police box, still battered, still absurd. He opens the door with a flourish and hands her inside.

The console room is startlingly different: bigger, and golds and greens and organic lines rather than the stark white she remembers. But the old hatstand still stands in its place by the doors, though it appears that the Doctor now prefers to fling his coat over anything _but_ the stand. She sits carefully down on a seat with stained and much-duct-taped upholstery and watches as the Doctor darts around the console–also larger than she remembers, and covered with the _oddest_ bits and pieces–flipping switches and pulling levers. "Hang on," he warns, pausing with a hand on the console. "She's a bit rougher ride than she used to be."

Barbara remembers only too well how rough the TARDIS got in the old days, and grimly tightens her grip on the seat. The Doctor winks at her–goodness, but he's gotten cheeky in his youth!–and pulls. The room shudders violently, nearly throwing Barbara from her seat and sending the Doctor reeling wildly. The familiar wheezing wail fills the air, and a moment later the shaking eases off. The Doctor pulls the scanner screen around and squints at it. "Oh, good," he says, sounding relieved. "She cooperated. But then, the TARDIS always rather liked you." He holds out a hand to her once more. "Come and have a look."

He helps her up, but instead of leading her over to the scanner he takes her to the doors instead, flinging them open. She gasps at the sight.

They are in space, and churning below them in huge majesty is the glowing maelstrom of a nebula. She'd forgotten how magnificent the universe was. "It's beautiful!"

The Doctor beams like a pleased child and props one shoulder against the doorframe. "It is, isn't it?" He sounds ridiculously smug, as though the nebula were all his doing. But then she watches his eyes soften and hears his voice become wistful. "It's so easy to forget in the midst of all the fighting, all the chaos and tragedy, or even in the grind of ordinary, everyday life just _how_ beautiful it all really is. God knows, even _I_ forget–and it's sights like this that have kept me sane since...well, in recent years."

She wishes, suddenly, that he would confide in her. She can see that somewhere in the not-too-distant past that his soul was torn to shreds, his heart broken somehow. She's fairly certain it is something to do with Susan, and with his home–Gallifrey, he'd called it, and his voice had trembled. But he had never confided to her in the past, and the gulf of years between them–and the fact that they had so often been at odds–is too wide for her to cross.

Maybe, though, it isn't necessary. Watching his stranger's face, she sees something like peace steal across it as he turns to give her a warm smile. "Thank you," he says again.

"You're welcome, Doctor."

And he leans forward, pulling her into a warm embrace, his lips brushing her forehead briefly, and she knows that, however strained their odd friendship might have been, at this moment in time she has been a good friend.

She no longer feels hollow.


	3. Chapter 2: The Wake

**Author's Note: This is rapidly growing much larger than I intended. The damn bunnies _will _keep multiplying... This bit contains MAJOR spoilers for the end of series 3 (actually, the prologue contained spoilers, too, and I forgot to warn folks. But this is even bigger spoilers.) So if you haven't seen the end of series three and you don't want to know what happened, I suggest you not read this. If you don't mind, then by all means, read away.**

**See the end for a further note. Cheers!**

**Note: Sorry for the multiple edits. This is what I get for not proofreading my own work BEFORE I post it... **

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Leaves crunch beneath the soles of his trainers as he makes his way across the broad lawn. Their sharp, musty smell mingles with the tang of wood smoke on the crisp October air. No other planet in the universe can manage autumn quite so well as Earth. 

Nearing the sprawling house, he hesitates, torn between the polite method–going up and ringing the front bell–and his normal method, which would be to simply let himself into the back garden and wander around until someone shouts at him. He sticks with habit; going through the front door would undoubtedly require speaking to people he didn't want to speak to, not to mention introductions and explanations...Anyway, it's likely that Doris will answer the door and as fond as he is of her, she isn't the person he's come to see. (And while he knows she likes him, he's also perfectly aware of the fact that she believes him a bad influence on her husband. Well...she's not wrong, is she?)

The path he's chosen curves gently around the west wing of the house, meandering past the old carriage house-turned-garage. The doors stand open, and his steps slow as he catches a glimpse of bright yellow peeping out from beneath an old tarpaulin. A little thread of delight curls through him, and he turns off the path and into the cool, dim garage. Leaves and smoke are replaced by machine oil and dust, with a touch of wood-rot.

Tugging the tarpaulin aside, he stands beaming happily down at the boxy, cheerful shape of a heavily modified old jalopy. After a moment, he reaches out, almost reverently, to stroke the engine hood, feeling smooth chrome and gritty dust from the tarp beneath his fingers.

"It still runs beautifully," someone says.

He doesn't turn around immediately, still admiring the vehicle with rapt nostalgia, like a man who's just seen an old lover and is delighted to discover she's even lovelier than he remembers. "Of course it still runs beautifully," he says smugly. "After all, _I_ built her!" He turns then, transferring his smile to the distinguished looking old gentleman standing in the doorway. "Hello, Brigadier!"

Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart returns the smile. "Hello, Doctor. Imagine seeing you here."

"Glad to see you've finally caught the knack of recognizing me after a face-change."

The ex-UNIT general shrugs. "Yes, well, the way you stood there mooning over that old car was a bit of a giveaway. And you're one of the few people who still calls me 'Brigadier.' Oh, and then there's the little matter of your face plastered all over the news a few weeks ago. Really, Doctor–wanted as a terrorist? Not your usual style at all."

"It's been a busy year," the Doctor admits, still patting the car fondly. He avoids the other man's eyes, pretending to inspect the hood for scratches.

"Hmm." The Doctor can feel the Brigadier's steady gaze on him. "Want to talk about it?"

"...Actually, I would. If you don't mind." He half-hopes his old friend _does_ mind, that he's in the middle of some desperately important project that can't be interrupted...

But the Brigadier merely nods, and leads him out of the garage, down the path, and into of the gardens. The Doctor seats himself at a small table set under a spreading oak, while the Brigadier disappears inside to fetch drinks.

The garden is truly magnificent. The Doctor remembers it well from his last visit, particularly how great a solace it was for him. Alistair and his wife have been working on the landscape of their estate almost non-stop for the past twenty years; it is easily one of the loveliest private gardens in England. He admires the late-blooming roses, and tries desperately to think what, exactly, he's going to say.

The Brigadier returns within minutes, carrying a few unlabeled dark bottles under his arm and a pair of ceramic coffee mugs. "My granddaughter keeps running off with the shot-glasses for her 'tea parties,'" he explains, waving the mugs. One has a the words "#1 Grandpa" printed on it. "I have no idea where she's left them this time."

The Doctor's mouth quirks in a half-smile. "Mine used to do much the same. Only it was usually my tools."

They sit in silence. The Doctor returns to his intent study of the roses. He still doesn't know what to say. As the moment stretches towards awkward the Brigadier opens a bottle and splashes liquid into the mugs. The Doctor, paying no attention to what the stuff is, accepts the one handed him by the Brigadier. He cradles it in his hands, but does not drink.

"It's been very strange, this past couple of years," says the Brigadier after awhile. "The sudden upsurge of extraterrestrial activity, and here's me at home watching it on the telly instead of being right in the thick of it." He sips from his mug and leans back in his chair. "Bambera has been kind enough not to revoke my security clearance, so I'm allowed access to any files I care to read." He chuckles. "Maybe the word I'm looking for isn't 'kind' so much as 'shrewd,' since it also keeps me out of her hair and out of trouble." He sighs. "Actually, I've discovered that I prefer reading about it these days to actually galloping off to get involved. I suppose that means I've gotten old."

The Doctor does not reply, though he smiles faintly, turning his mug around and around in his hands.

"I read the one on the Sycorax incident, Christmas before last..." The Brigadier hesitates, clearly waiting for a remark from his companion. When the Doctor remains silent he plunges on. "UNIT didn't shoot down that ship."

"I know," the Doctor replies in a low voice. "It was bloody Torchwood. And the Prime Minister."

"Ah. Harriet Jones. I nearly fell out of my chair when she made that plea for 'the Doctor.' I wasn't aware she knew you."

"Oh, yes. That little incident on Downing Street the year before?"

"You mean the one where the seat of government exploded into very small pieces?"

"Yeah. She helped me out on that. Saved the world. Pity she didn't make a habit of it."

"Rather odd, her getting voted out of office like that."

"Not really." He knows he sounds cold, and that Alistair is studying him with shrewd speculation, but he doesn't really care. "Just a few words in the right ears. Six words, as a matter of fact."

"Was it necessary?"

The Doctor sighs and tilts his head back to look up at the gnarled branches, glamorous in their autumn colors. "I thought so at the time. It was murder, that order to fire. I'd gotten them to agree to leave peacefully–_and_ got my hand chopped off in the process–and they were to pass the word to leave Earth alone. And she went and mucked it up. I was _furious_."

"Not like you to get involved in government," the Brigadier says, his voice careful.

"No." He leans forward again, to stare at the scarred wood of the tabletop. "And in hindsight, it probably wasn't the right thing to do. I'd only just regenerated, you see–but that's a lame excuse. I should have let it go. Then maybe..." He stops, and picks at a loose bit of wood with his fingernail.

"Maybe the mysterious fellow known as Harold Saxon might not have come to power?"

The Doctor nods, wordlessly, feeling his throat go tight. This is why he came here, but now that he's come to it all he wants to do is run away.

Silence stretches again, until the Brigadier makes a short, irritated movement. "You're going to make me ask, aren't you?" he demands, accusingly. "Fine. I will. What _really_ happened up there, Doctor, on that aircraft carrier? I mean aside from the fact that the American president went and got himself disintegrated by those Toclafane things and Harold Saxon apparently attempted to take over–but I know you were there, Doctor. You must have been, because that crisis suddenly...wasn't. So what happened?"

"Harold Saxon wasn't human." He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the table. The splinter is almost worked free.

"All right. What was he then?"

"Time Lord."

A shocked silence across the table. "But...I thought..."

"So did I. Turns out I was wrong."

There is the sound of a mug being drained and refilled. "And you knew him?"

"Oh, yes. So did you, in point of fact."

A soft 'huh' of realization. "He always was the most remarkable survivor."

"Yes." Finally, he raises his eyes to meet the Brigadier's. "Go on and say it, Alistair. I know you won't be happy until you do."

"You look awful."

"I expect I do." He tries to smile, as if it's nothing. "I'm just tired. It happens, every now and then."

"You're not just tired," the Brigadier snaps. "I know combat fatigue when I see it. And trauma. You look just like you did when you came here after...after the War."

The Doctor looks away, studying the roses again. Six weeks, he spent here, after the horrific realization that he'd survived and was all alone. Three of those weeks he'd been delirious, wracked with guilt and grief and the trauma of regeneration. The Brigadier and Doris had hauled him, kicking and screaming, through the worst of it–even going so far as to take down all the mirrors in the house when he raved at the sight of one. They'd forced food down his throat, tracked him down when he ran, and generally kept him from committing outright suicide. He hadn't been particularly grateful for it, but as the madness eased under their steady care and the tranquility of their home he'd found a measure of peace. Enough to find something resembling a will to live, anyway. "It's...not quite the same."

"No. In some ways, I expect it's worse."

Damn him. Damn him for becoming so perceptive in his old age, and damn him for caring so bloody _much_. He wants to rage at him, drive him and his damned unwelcome compassion away–but he doesn't. He's tried that before, and it didn't work. Not on Alistair.

So instead of raging, he begins to speak instead, and the whole story comes tumbling out. He didn't intend that, but by the time he realizes what he's saying it's too late to stop the flood of words. He tells the Brigadier of their childhood, how they'd become fast friends in the first days at the Academy. How they'd sworn oaths that they believed would make them brothers forever. He speaks of how the Master–who went by another name then, as had the Doctor–had chafed from the start at the rigid strictures of their society, and how he dreamed of freedom beyond the borders of their home system, and shared those dreams with his dearest friend. He laughs, remembering how they'd driven instructors, parents, and authority mad with their pranks and stunts. He tells of growing up, and growing apart, as the Doctor relinquished those dreams of freedom and adventure in favor of the expectations of family and faction, and marriage and children had taken him further from the side of his once-brother. How one day, his old friend had simply...disappeared. Turned renegade and run away with his TARDIS to fulfil his dreams of freedom alone. The Doctor wonders, now, if his own slow, unwitting betrayal of his childhood friend was not one of the reasons he became the horror who called himself 'the Master.' Oh, he'd always been more than a little mad, but had those seeds of darkness always been there?

Then he tells the Brigadier about the Face of Boe, and his final, unnerving words. He speaks of Utopia and a kind, brilliant old man named Yana struggling to save the last of humanity from the terrible cold at the end of all things. How all that was a lie, a mask, shattered by a pocket watch with the power to make a Time Lord a human being. The theft of his TARDIS, and the happy fortune that allowed them to escape the end of the universe and return to twenty-first century Earth. Harold Saxon, and his patient, devious traps. The Toclafane. The year that never happened. A woman named Martha Jones, whose bravery and passion lent him the power to change it back, to thwart the Master's plans once again.

He talks steadily for two hours, and the Brigadier listens in silence. At last the Doctor reaches the end of his tale–his confession?–when the damage of the paradox machine was undone. He winds to a halt, his throat dry. He feels...numb. Empty as the Void. After a moment he says, "Do you remember...in the old days, with UNIT, how he seemed to pop up every time we turned around? I always wondered why he was so interested in a little, out of the way world like Earth."

"It wasn't Earth," says the Brigadier softly.

"No, it wasn't. It was because of me. Because I loved–love–this planet so very much, he wanted it. He told me–he said if he couldn't have this world, then neither could I. And do you know what the greatest irony is? The Toclafane...he was still trying to give them their Utopia. Still trying to keep them from the dark and the cold. In his own, twisted way, he was trying to save them." He laughs, but it sounds more like a sob. "And at the end, the only way left to hurt me was to die. Him! The great survivor, who spent so many centuries and lives in a quest for immortality. And he could have had it, or something close to it–without Gallifrey and the Matrix I'm not sure we're limited to just thirteen regenerations any more. But he wanted so badly to hurt me, to _win_..." His hands clench, nails digging deep into his palms, but he's too deep to feel that small pain. "It's my fault." Another sob-laugh escapes him. "He's dead, Alistair. He was my best friend, and my worst enemy. I held him, while he refused to live. He laughed to see my tears...He's _dead_, Alistair. And–and I'm alone again!"

The Brigadier holds him while he weeps like a hurt child, for loss, for the shattered dreams of childhood, for madness and darkness that devour the soul. For the grief that haunts every sentient being and which cannot be escaped. But when he comes at last to the end of the tears he no longer feels numb. Instead it is the emptiness of a drained wound, the weariness that comes from absolution rather than guilt. Healing, instead of gnawing stagnation.

Silence stretches once more, but this time it is the comfortable quiet between old friends who have seen nearly everything there is to see in each other and accepted it. The Brigadier–who for all his depth of compassion remains still a stiff-upper-lip British gentleman to his fingertips–busies himself with refilling his mug and topping up the Doctor's untouched one, giving his friend time to compose himself. The Doctor hunts in vain through his pockets for a handkerchief. At length he gives up, settling instead for an inexplicable pair of clean socks.

The Brigadier opens his mouth as though to speak, but hesitates. Finally he says, "I wish I knew what to say. I'm so sorry."

"Thank you." The Doctor drags his mug toward him, wondering for the first time what, exactly, was in it. He thinks it might be whiskey; he smelled whiskey earlier, when the Brigadier was filling the mugs. "One day, maybe I'll understand what really happened to him. Probably not until I'm dead myself, though. I just...I had to speak to someone about it. Someone who knew him, and knew me. Who might...understand."

The other's smile is wry. "I'm surprised you picked me. All those years you spent calling me an idiot..."

"Only in some areas. In others, my friend, you far surpass me." The Doctor draws a deep breath and lifts his mug. "A toast?"

The Brigadier raises his own mug. "To lost friends and dear enemies. May we never forget the lessons they've taught us, and may we someday learn to forgive ourselves."

"Amen," murmurs the Doctor, and takes a deep swallow. Then he chokes, sputters, and begins to cough. "_Ginger beer?!_"

The old general begins to laugh, helplessly. The Doctor glares at him, though he's already starting to feel his head tingle.

"You're a horrible, horrible man."

The Brigadier only grins at him. The Doctor cannot hold his glare, and, taking another pull, grins back.

* * *

**Author's Note redux: Some of you might raise your eyebrows at the ginger beer thing. It's not just a silly joke, I swear. I don't know if it was ever mentioned in the classic series (I haven't seen all there is to see of classic Who yet), but several times I've read in a Who novel/heard in a radio play that Time Lords cannot be affected by alcohol, or many other intoxicants, unless they deliberately choose to be. The Eighth Doctor could knock back shot after shot of bourbon (and did) without ever getting the least bit tipsy, because he adjusted his metabolism to process the alcohol. This probably explains why, as a rule, the Doctor is not often seen drinking alcohol. (Well, that and it's a family-oriented show.) It might get a bit hard to explain to the big burly fellows who have money riding on whether or not they can drink you under the table why you don't seem to be getting at all drunk...  
**

** However...it seems that ginger beer (or ginger ale, if you like) is one of the few known substances in the Universe that absolutely, without question gets a Time Lord completely smashed. At least if the Time Lord happens to be the Doctor. Whether or not this is a species-wide thing or a quirk unique to the Doctor I really can't say. I prefer to view it as a species wide thing. After all, ginger beer is probably only found on Earth, so it probably isn't an issue most of the time. As one of the few Time Lords to spend any significant time on Earth, the Doctor naturally would run across it. And anyway, it absolutely tickles me that, while you can drop the Doctor in a vat of liquor and he'll probably only get bored, it only takes a single shot of ginger beer to plaster him. **

** That's all right, though. The Master has an inexplicable fascination with horrible children's television programming...like Teletubbies, and whatever it is he was watching back in the seventies...  
**


	4. Chapter 3: The Wedding

**Author's Note: Geeze, this thing is rolling right along. Which is good, I suppose, since I _do_ see an end in sight (sorry, I have no intention of covering every single companion that might still conceivably be alive--especially not Peri or Mel. They're annoying.) This is good because it means I'll have to knuckle down and work on my OTHER in-progress fic...:D**

* * *

"Dorothy, I'm so sorry..."

"Oh, stop apologizing, Liam! As if it's your fault the lorry driver decided to stop and tie one on before he drove back to the warehouse." She tugs at the bodice, trying to get it to lie straight. It had seemed a good idea at the time, going with something more _slinky_ than _snowbeast_, but the snowbeast dress could have stood up on its own while she wriggled around to fix the zipper. This would be easier if she had someone helping her into the damn thing, but she's only got the one bridesmaid and she's busy having _words_ with the usher...

Which, Dorothy supposes, is what she gets for having a _small_ wedding. Not that they could have planned a big one; neither of them has much left in the way of family, and only a few friends between the pair of them. Some people might find it depressing, but she prefers it this way: she'd rather have a handful she can trust than a mob to turn away at the first sign of trouble.

Though trouble, these days, seems to consist mostly of the fact that she _can't get the damn zipper unstuck..._

"I should be there," Liam protests.

"You should," she agrees. "And as soon as we're done Hex and me are going to go give a few bruises to that idiot driver." It wins a pained laugh out of him, as she hoped. "Actually," she adds, squirming around to prop her back against the wall and see if _that_ will convince the zipper to cooperate, "soon as the ceremony is over we'll come see you. That way you can see the dress and have a cry, if you like."

"Oh, shut it."

"Yeah, well, you're my only living relative, so you've got to do all the crying for Mum...though now that I think about it, I don't think she'd even have bothered to show, so I suppose you're off the hook there."

"I just feel so...I mean, what kind of bad luck does it take, to get hit by a bloody truck the day before you're supposed to walk your sister down the aisle?"

"Extremely bad luck," says Dorothy helpfully. "If it makes you feel better, remember that it's probably _my_ luck that's bad, not yours. You should be used to that by now, Liam." She stops trying to fix the zipper and cradles the mobile in both hands. "Seriously, Liam, don't tear yourself up about it. The world isn't going to end and I'm not going to stop being your sister just because you can't make my wedding, all right? If I could, I'd have moved the whole thing to the hospital, but the doctors won't let me. Anyway, I'm just happy you'll be all right."

He sighs, and she can imagine the woebegone expression on his face as he lies, helpless in plaster and traction and various tubes, in his hospital bed. "I know. You promise you'll come by right after?"

"I promise."

"All right. 'Bye then."

She puts the mobile down on the table, sighs, and goes back to wrestling with her zipper. Probably she should be grateful she hadn't gone with the rows of tiny buttons, but right now she's ready to fling the dress out the window and get married in her skivvies.

There is a knock on the door. "You okay in there?"

_Finally_ the damn thing gives, and slithers into place. "Yeah. Don't come in, or Shelly will throw a wobbler."

"She isn't even in there. She's still tearing the usher a new one."

"Yeah, but she's got some kind of sixth sense. And since Liam got hit by a truck she's convinced that breaking _any_ traditions will cause the church to explode or something. So unless you want to be on the receiving end of a new tearing, you'd better get lost and go round up the musicians or something."

"..._Why_ did you let her plan this?" he whines.

"Because she's good at organizing things. And because you or I attempting it would have been a disaster."

"And then we could have eloped."

"And then Liam would never have forgiven me."

"And now he can't make it, strapped as he is to a hospital bed, so why don't we do a runner?"

"Because Shelly will hunt us both down and flay us, slowly."

He sighs. "Fine. But it's still almost an _hour_."

"Over soon, love."

He snorts skeptically by way of goodbye, and then she's alone again.

She's happy–of _course_ she's happy–but she can't deny feeling a weird kind of...well, sorrow is the best word she can think of. She wants to marry him–he's probably the only person in the universe she can even _consider_ putting up with for the rest of forever–and it's certainly taken them both long enough to _get _here. Nearly a decade, in fact...and doesn't _that_ make her feel a little old? Not that thirty is old, of course not.

_So much living, Dorothy McShane_, she tells the woman in the mirror. _So much living in such a short time. When you've run the length of space and Time, you're bound to feel older than you are._

She's dressed, and far too early. Hair done, and actually staying where it was put, for once. Makeup good enough for getting on with. Shoes, ugh. She should have gone for the ballet slippers or, better yet, the white trainers, but had let Shelly talk her into heels. Hah. Like Shelly is the one who's going to have to _stand_ in them for the next several hours; _she_ picked sensible flats, the wench. Well, she'll put them on right before she goes up the aisle. Alone.

At least she won't be alone at the end of it–happy thought. But not quite enough to make up for the daunting–and somewhat embarrassing–prospect of trooping up the ridiculous length of church (_why_ had she let Shelly and Hex pick the church? She'd wanted a civil ceremony, dammit.) all by herself. Poor Liam. Poor Dorothy. It's all the Bad Luck's fault.

Shoes dangling from one hand, she pokes her head out of the dressing room. The hall is empty, thank God, and so is the little tiny chapel at the end of it. She could do with a few quiet moments to think, without a dress to fight with or a brother and a fiancé to soothe. It'll probably be the last quiet moments she _ever_ has, since both she and Hex have decided they want kids.

It's a nice chapel, with a beautiful stained glass saint gazing soulfully down from the window, shedding a pool of colored light. She's never considered herself particularly religious–as a teenager she'd have vehemently declared herself _anti_-religion–but a person couldn't go through the amazing, terrifying thing she called her life and not at least _wonder_ a little bit. At least enough to enjoy a quiet moment in a nice little chapel.

She isn't sure how long she's been sitting there–maybe ten minutes–before she becomes aware that she isn't alone anymore. He's a tall guy–nearly as tall as Hex–and about their age. He's formally dressed in a tux, but his bow tie is askew and instead of dress shoes he's wearing the most absurd pair of bright red Converse. Dark hair sticks up at odd angles, colored crazily in the light of the stained glass. She's never seen him before in her life, and yet there's something about him...something...

He smiles, lopsidedly. "Hello, Ace."

He is holding a hat in his hands, turning it over and over. It's a white straw panama, one that lives in her memories. And suddenly she knows. "Professor?!"

The smile broadens into a grin as she launches herself at him, throwing both arms around him in a fierce hug. "Oof! Watch the tux, there, it's rumpled enough as it is," he says, laughing. But he hugs her back, and though the thin body is strange to her the smell is him. Dusty books and sweets, and something that smells like the sea but isn't, that she always thought was the smell of Time.

"Oh, my God." She pulls away, staring. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Oh...death, in various forms, several times over. I told you about regeneration, didn't I?"

"Professor, when did you ever tell me _anything_?"

"I'm certain I did. Didn't I? I distinctly recall it coming up in a conversation about mortality..." He doesn't lisp anymore, and there is no trace of Scotland in his voice. For some reason, though, this doesn't bother her. It's still the Doctor's voice, still comforting and maddening at the same time.

"You said something vague about switching faces. I thought you were being metaphorical–you usually were."

"You're probably right. I was a bit evasive back then, wasn't I?"

"A bit?"

He grins, then takes her by the shoulders and stands back to look her over. "You look beautiful, Ace." A glint enters his dark eyes. "I thought you swore you'd _never_ get married, that the institution of marriage was nothing but a misery-trap."

"Yeah, well, I think I found an exception."

"I'm glad." He gestures toward the pew, and they sit down. "How's your brother?"

"In hospital." She shakes her head at his startled, concerned expression. "He'll live, though he got banged up pretty bad. Got in the way of a drunk lorry driver yesterday morning."

"Oh dear."

"Yeah." She looks down at her hands. The nails, for probably the first and last time in her life, are neatly manicured and polished. "How are you?" she asks, looking back up. It seems such a silly question. But she hasn't seen him in years.

"Oh...rubbing along adequately." He rubs his jaw. "It's, what, the year 2000?"

"Something like that."

"Let's see...next year I'm in New Orleans–not with this face, mind you–with one sorcerer trying to sacrifice me to demons and another one hanging me out as bait for elementals. Couple of them weren't too bad–the elementals, I mean, not the demons. Which reminds me, I ought to give her a call...Oh, and I get kidnaped a few times, it's very sad. Few years after that I'll be annoying the residents of an insane asylum with an extremely inconvenient investigation before burning it to the ground. Then it's back here in Britain–with another face–fending off angry shop window dummies and various other alien incursions. But that isn't for a few years yet. Incidentally, if you start noticing the dummies acting oddly, don't go out shopping that night. Should be around 2005 that it happens, so keep an eye out. And stay indoors that Christmas. And don't get too worried if people climb up on the rooftops, they're not going to jump off. Oh, and don't vote for Harriet Jones, she turns out to be a ringer. I'd tell you not to vote for Saxon, either, but I don't think you'll have a lot of choice about that one..."

She blinks at him. "I guess you've given up on evasive," is the only thing she can think of to say.

"Oh, not entirely. But you're old hat at this. I don't have to worry about you running off and trying to change the timeline." He grins again.

"Professor..."

"Yes, Dorothy Gale McShane?"

"Don't use my middle name, I hate it. My mum's screwed up sense of humor..." She thumps him lightly on the shoulder. "I missed you."

"I missed you too, Ace. Life just hasn't been the same without the Nitro-9 to keep me on my toes." He sighs. "And here you are, about to get married. I tell you, Ace, it makes me feel old."

"Hah. And you not looking a day over thirty. How'd you manage that, anyway?"

"Luck of the draw. Though mind you, the regenerations do seem to keep getting younger. Gets much worse, and I'll end up a teenager. If that happens, I think I'll just throw myself in the nearest black hole. Once was bad enough."

"How did...what happened to the old Professor?"

He sighs again. "I can tell you, I've gotten better about checking outside before I go swanning out the TARDIS doors. Walked into the middle of a gang firefight in San Francisco. Shot twice, but that wasn't the problem. The problem came later, when the emergency surgeon thought I was going into cardiac arrest and stuck a probe in my chest for a look-see. What a mess."

"Oh. Wasn't anyone with you?"

"No. I...well, I didn't really travel with anyone else after you and Hex left."

"Oh." She can't help but think that, if she and Hex _had_ been there, they would have patched him up properly. She feels a little guilty, as though she'd abandoned someone who couldn't really take care of himself.

He seems to guess her thoughts. "Oh, I assure you that at the time I thought it was grand. You and Hex required a lot of watching, and a lot of energy. I was looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet after all that rescuing."

"Rescuing! When if you'd just told us what was going on, instead of pulling a vanishing act all the time–" she breaks off when she sees he's grinning again. "You may have changed faces, Professor, but you're still insufferable."

"Yes, I know."

She shifts then, wondering if she should ask the next question, afraid that if she does he will vanish like an illusion. "Professor...why are you here? I mean, I'm overjoyed to see you, but..."

"No monsters, I promise. No crisis, no sudden bouts of saving the world. I am here for the simple reason of seeing someone I care about very much get married."

"Oh..."

"And," he adds, looking suddenly uncertain, "wondering if she'll allow an old friend to walk her down the aisle. Since–since your brother can't, and your father is dead."

Her eyes sting, and she can't find her voice. How can she find the words to explain? "Doctor...Professor...my father isn't dead. Not–not the man I consider my father. And I would be honored if you'd walk me down the aisle."

He bows his head, but not before she sees the flash of tears, and she knows he understands. She can't deny that she wishes he wore the face of _her_ Professor, the face she has associated with 'father' for so many years, but she isn't about to turn him down just because he doesn't look quite right.

She hears someone calling her name, and realizes that it's time to go. "Well, Professor, shall we go, then?"

He passes a hand over his eyes, and the smile puts in another appearance. "By the way, who _are_ you marrying?"

"Who d'you think? Hex, of course."

"Really?" His face lights up with delight. "That's brilliant! Er..." he glances in the general direction of the main chapel. "Though I think we'd better have a quiet word with him before the ceremony. He might get the wrong idea, watching his bride walk down the aisle on the arm of a complete stranger that looks his own age."

That hadn't really occurred to her. When she looks at him, she doesn't see a young man with dark hair and eyes. To her, he will always be a funny-looking little man with curly black hair and piercing grey eyes, a man who speaks with a lisp and fools everyone around him into believing him a harmless duffer, even as he maneuvers everyone around him into pulling their _own_ puppet strings. "Good idea. I'll fetch him, shall I. Or have the usher grab him, so Shelly doesn't have a fit."

Hex is understandably confused, but it doesn't take long for him to realize this really _is_ the Doctor–and then he is almost as pleased as his to-be wife about the plan. He darts away, grinning hugely (and mostly, Ace suspects, at the prospect of the utter _confusion_ the Doctor's presence will cause) and she turns to the Doctor. "Are you ready?"

"Isn't that what I'm supposed to ask you?" he asks impudently. But then his face softens, and he reaches out to touch her cheek. "I'm so proud of you, Ace. So very proud." And he holds out the battered old panama hat. "I know it's a bit odd, but I wanted to give you this as a wedding gift."

She takes the hat, feeling the straw beneath her fingers worn thin with age. "You know," she says. "I'm not actually wearing the 'something old' bit. Shelly managed to foist everything else on me, except that. We couldn't find anything. But this–this'll work." And she puts the hat on her head, tilted absurdly on top of her hairdo, and takes the arm of the man who, in every way that has ever counted, is her father.

* * *

**AN Redux: Ace has always been one of my favorite classic companions, holding equal rank with the incomparable Sarah Jane. More importantly, I think she is one of the only companions since Adric-the-Whiny-Teenage-Brat (and, so far as I can tell, the only female companion since Susan) to have a parent/child relationship with the Doctor rather than friend, sibling, or love. (And I don't want to hear from the slash fans about the whole Adric thing. I don't do slash, sorry. And even if I did, frankly I think the Doctor would have better taste...:p)  
**


	5. Chapter 4: The Runaway

**Author's Note: Gaaah...it's 2am. As nice as inspiration can be, it's a bloody pain when it won't _leave you alone_ long enough to go to bed. But there, the chapter is finished and I'm so tired now that I can't hear the plot bunnies. :D I must say, though, writing one-shots is rather fun and a LOT less stressful than working out a story with a big, complicated plot. There is, I think, just one chapter left. But it ain't getting written tonight, and probably not tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm going to play all the City of Heroes and WoW I'd planned to tonight, and didn't because the dang muse would let me be. :D Thanks for reading and reviewing!  
**

* * *

It's chilly outside, and she's gone and forgotten her jacket. Stupid. But she was in _such_ a rage, it was hard to imagine she'd cool off so fast.

Of course, it was _her_ fault. If she just wasn't so–so–well, she couldn't think of an adequate word to describe just _what_ her mum was, but whatever it was, she was certainly a lot of it. Always the same, nag, nag, nag. As if she wasn't practically an adult! And what did Mum know, anyway, with her dead-end job and her dead-end relationships and her dead-end-bloody life?

_I'll never be like that. I'll __**be**__ something. Do something important. Not just tick off the days on the bloody calendar, waiting for retirement. Waiting for life to __**happen**__ to me, instead of goin' out and __**making**__ it happen. I'll show her._

Another voice in her head, this one distressingly practical, points out that she wasn't going to do any kind of showing if she ran out of the house without her stupid _jacket_ and _froze_ to death

The light of an all night diner is a welcome sight, and she hurries across the road–cursing her shoes and her tight skirt the entire time–to duck inside and grab a stool at the counter near the drinks cooler, where the heat from its vent warms her chilled skin. Maybe the skirt _is_ a little short. For the weather, anyway...

_That isn't the __**point.**__ The __**point**__ is that I'm old enough to bloody wear what I want!_

The skirt had only been the flashpoint for the row. Mum had seen it and gone spare, wanting to know what she was _thinking_ going out this time of night dressed like that, and on a school night, too. (As if that somehow made the skirt less acceptable? Less short?) She'd said something flip, and it had all gone pear-shaped after that. They'd covered all the old ground, moving on from her wardrobe to her grades to her friends and back to her grades. It wasn't that they were bad–far from it–it was what they meant for her future. Mum wanted her to go to some stupid stuffed shirt university, but she had her eye on a liberal arts school far, _far_ away from home. (And fine, so Ricky Hackshawe was a student there, but that didn't mean _anything_...)

And she'd gone and lost her temper and screamed at Mum about her loser job and her loser life. Fine, so maybe being a stewardess had been a glam job when Mum was young, but that was over twenty _years_ ago! You'd think she'd have moved on to something better by now! And Mum's reply "It's safe." What did _that_ mean? As if "safe" (read: boring) were somehow a good reason?

"You gonna order somethin'?" The waitress is old, and tired looking. Kind of like Mum some days, though even her thoroughly annoyed daughter is willing to concede that Mum is still a lot younger than this woman. And even Mum has _never_ looked this bored.

"Um..." She fumbles in her purse, the little cute one she thought would be good to go clubbing with. There's a handful of change; she tugs it out. "A coffee?"

The waitress grunts and turns away to fetch the coffee pot.

"I'll have a coffee too, if you don't mind."

The girl startles, and turns her head to see a man sitting on the stool next to her. She doesn't remember hearing anyone else come in, but the waitress does not seem to be alarmed, so she relaxes a bit, keeping her head lowered toward the coffee cup but sneaking surreptitious glances at him out of the corner of her eye.

He's not bad looking, and he's got hair sticking up in the careless, windblown style that most of the boys at school try (and fail) to achieve. Could use a shave, but it seems to go along with the old-school pinstripe suit. He's wearing a tee shirt under the jacket, with some sort of band logo on it, which raises his cool-factor in her eyes some. She might consider him fanciable, if he weren't so old. He's got to be almost thirty.

He smiles his thanks at the waitress, flashing a dimple, but she's too far gone in dreary to notice. The girl notices, and immediately feels self-conscious for the noticing. The man sips at the coffee and sighs happily. "Nothing like a good ol' greasy spoon for coffee thick enough to bounce things off," he remarks to no one in particular. Londoner, by his accent.

"So..." He pauses and blows steam off the top of his cup and continues, casually, "Have a row with the parent?"

She stares at him. "S-sorry?"

"Oh, it's all over you. I suppose your Da objected to the party-clothes? Or was it because it's a school night?"

She hunches her shoulders. "I–I'm not..."

"It's all right. I'm not looking for a date, I promise." He winks at her, but it isn't like the creepy winks the Maths teacher sometimes levels at girls, or the obnoxious ones the boys at school try out. It's just...friendly. Like he's got a joke and he's inviting everyone to share it.

She relaxes without really realizing it. "My mum," she says.

"Over the skirt?"

"Bit. But mostly about _everything_." And without meaning to, the whole story tumbles out. He listens attentively, but he doesn't do more than glance toward her from time to time, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the retro-seventies clock on the diner wall. It makes it easier to talk. He drinks his coffee and makes encouraging noises from time to time, and before she knows it, she's even told him about Ricky Hackshawe. It's like–it's like how she used to talk to Mum, before Mum went and got so control-freak after Dad left.

And then she's railing on Mum. "I mean, it's such a dead end job. It's like she's got no ambition, like she's given up on life. It's so _stupid_, and it's _so_ embarrassing. I mean, try telling your friends that your mum is a _stewardess_. And that's what she calls it, even though everyone else calls them flight attendants now. She just doesn't _care_. And all she'll ever say is that she likes it, because it's 'safe.'" Her voice drips with disdain. "I mean, who ever went and got a job just because it's _safe_?"

"Oh...possibly retired test pilots," the man murmurs. "Or former lion-tamers."

"Maybe if she'd been one," she grumbles, propping her chin on her hand. "'Least then it would make _sense_."

He's still studying the clock, but cocks an eyebrow in her direction. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," she admits, torn between pride and reluctance.

"Mmm."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm sure you've worked out all the sense to be had in the world, old as you are."

She can't quite be sure, but she thinks there's some sarcasm in that remark. He's better at it than Mum, anyway. Mum's attempts at sarcastic are like being hit over the head with a great huge club. This is much more subtle–and much harder to get angry at. Instead she flushes. "How old are you, then?" she demands sulkily.

"What month is it?"

"March."

"Is it really? Goodness. Well if it's March of, let's see...2007, then that makes me–oh, I the exact number is depressing. Let's say over nine hundred years old and leave it at that, shall we?"

She stares at him for a long moment, waiting for the punchline. It doesn't come. "I'm sorry, did you say _nine hundred_?"

"Something like that. Actually it's a bit more, but like I said: it's depressing."

"Nine hundred."

"Nine hundred," he agrees solemnly.

She summons the depth of scorn only a sixteen year old can manage. "Pull the other one, it's got bells on."

He raises his eyebrows and looks at her over his shoulder. "You don't believe me?"

"No one can live to be nine hundred years old! It's impossible."

"Is it? And you, with the great and venerable wisdom of your sixteen years, know everything that is and is not possible in this universe?"

She flounders. "Well, no, but–I mean...come _on_. That's just silly. You can't be more than–than thirty. Humans don't live much longer than hundred years, if they're lucky. Maybe they did in the Bible or something, but not anymore."

His eyebrows crawl up further toward his hairline. "Who says I'm human?"

She shoots a nervous glance toward the waitress, wondering if the woman has heard the complete nutter-talk going on here. If she has, though, the old woman gives no sign, apparently engrossed in a tabloid. She's on her own. "You're crazy."

"Heard that one before," he says, unconcerned. "But that doesn't change the fact, Molly Jovenka, that you don't know everything. Unless you're some sort of prodigy, in which case I'll stand corrected."

She didn't tell him her name. She knows she didn't. A cold spike of panic jabs her. "W-who are you?"

He turns to face her fully. She tries to look away, but his eyes–dark and weird–hold hers. "I'm not your enemy, Molly," he says softly, and her gaze is suddenly released. She stares at his tee shirt instead. It's for someone called 'Ian Drury and the Blockheads, whoever they are.

"Then who are you? How d'you know my name?"

"I'm an old friend of your Mum's." The smile appears again.

"Of my...oh, God, did she send you _after me_?"

"Heavens, no!" He looks offended. "She doesn't even know I'm around. Probably just as well," he adds. "She was always more likely to thump me than give me a hug."

She stares at him in disbelief. "How old a friend?" Because she _still_ doesn't believe that crap about being nine hundred years old, and he's only thirty and _oh no she's gone and gotten a younger boyfriend finally. I think I'm going to die._

"I knew her when she was about twenty." He rubs a hand over his hair. "She wandered into my ship by accident and got lost. Didn't even know she was there until we were well off-planet."

Completely derailed off the horrors of dealing with a mother's younger boyfriend, she stammers. "Y-your ship? Off-planet?"

"Oh, you sound like your mother. Sorry, I guess you probably don't appreciate the comparison right now. Yes. My ship. Wasn't her fault–it looks like a police call box."

"I–I think I'm going to leave now..."

"Sit down." His voice is quiet, but it crackles with an authority that folds her legs right up under her. She sits back down on the stool, staring. "I stopped off to speak to your mother and caught the tail end of your row with her," he continues, and there is no warmth in his voice now. "You called her a coward, among other things, and I decided that maybe it was more important I have a chat with you than with her. So, Molly Jovenka, you and I are going to have a chat."

She opens her mouth, to protest, to scream for help, to _something_, but one look from those dark eyes shuts it again. She suddenly remembers a line from a poem at school, something about flashing eyes and floating hair. He's got the flashing eyes, all right. She thought that was just a silly figure of speech...

"Your mother isn't a coward, Molly." The icy chill is gone from his voice. Now it's just very sincere. "She's one of the bravest people I've ever known–and in nine hundred plus years you get to know a _lot_ of people.

"She left Australia to become a, yes, a stewardess. Came all the way to Britain for the job, but instead of a job she looked forward to she found herself stuck on an alien ship, her aunt murdered, and herself farther away from home than she'd ever dreamed possible. To make matters worse, the alien whose ship she was in was cranky and disinclined to pay much attention to her distress, and promptly got himself into serious trouble of his own. Most people in your mother's position would go off into hysterics, or collapse into a gibbering heap. Instead, your mother helped save not only the alien who'd inadvertently kidnaped her, but also helped stop the man who'd murdered her aunt.

"Your mother saved _worlds_, Molly. Including this one. She saved whole galaxies. She traveled across time and space and faced down monsters out of nightmare. And she saved my life, more than once, though she had little reason to be grateful to the man who'd dragged her off planet." He half-smiles. "To be fair, she did all this under great protest, and seemed to take particular pleasure in ripping me a new one every chance she got. But I suppose it was not without justification.

"She and I never had an easy friendship, but I respect her deeply. And I respect her decision. She saw too much death, Molly. Death and destruction–those are things I deal with nearly every day. Finally she'd had enough, and she came back here to build a life for herself. A safer life. One without monsters and demons beyond those found in everyday life. A life that did not place on her shoulders the weight of worlds and the responsibility for saving them." His voice hardens again. "It wasn't cowardice that drove her away, little girl. It wasn't because she was a loser, or couldn't handle it. She simply got _tired_. She had done enough, and she deserved peace. So you remember that, Molly Jovenka, the next time you look on her with contempt. She deserves your respect as well as your love."

She sits, stunned. Part of her wants to reject what he's said as an impossible fantasy, as the ravings of a complete loon. But...she remembers some of the bedtime stories Mum used to tell her when she was little. Fantastic stories, adventures across time and space in a magical blue box. And a heroine who was forever getting the box's owner–a daft fellow called 'the Doctor'–out of scrapes. Old friend of her mother's or not, how could this man know about the stories?

"You want a refill, Doctor?" asks the waitress, ambling back over to them, coffee pot in hand.

"No, I'm good. Thanks, Marian."

This time she returns his smile, and then looks at Molly. "You ought to listen to him, girlie," she says. "He might babble on, but he's got a wise head on those skinny shoulders."

"As ever, Marian, your flattery underwhelms me."

She stares back and forth between the man–_Doctor?_–and the waitress. "But surely you don't believe–"

"That he's an alien?" Marian shrugs. "Don't know about that, but I do know he saved me, right here in this diner, from some kind of monster fifteen years ago. That's enough for me." She nods to the Doctor. "I'll see you next year?"

"Oh, probably next month. I do love the sludge you call coffee."

Molly fidgets on the stool, wondering what she's going to do _now_.

The Doctor is watching her steadily. "Well?"

Molly ducks her head. "I don't know," she mumbles.

"Eternal cry of the teenager," he says sourly. "It doesn't ever change. Planets, species, timelines–it's always the same. Still, it's your brain. You have to make the decisions yourself. What you'll believe and what you won't. I don't really care whether or not you believe me–but I _do_ expect you to open your eyes and realize that your mother is neither a coward nor a failure. Not by any standards that count. Now...shall I walk you home, or would you prefer to go for the complete martyr package? I can even arrange for some snow, if you like."

His sarcasm isn't subtle anymore, it's bloody withering, but she's feeling pretty well ashamed of herself by now. What's more, she's starting to feel as though the world is a whole lot bigger than she'd ever dreamed. "You can walk me home."

He nods amiably to Marian and drops a fiver on the counter, blithely ignoring the old woman's glare. At the door he retrieves a long brown coat from the coatrack and, with a shrewd glance at Molly's outfit, drapes the heavy thing over her shoulders. "C'mon," he says, and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, stepping out into the chilly spring night. Molly follows him, a little reluctantly.

He doesn't say anything on the walk back, and neither does she. She's turning his words over and over in her head. _Can_ it be true? Does she believe him? Does she dare?

They reach the corner of her street, and she comes to a halt. Under the single, pathetic street lamp stands a tall wooden box. She can tell its blue even under the poor light, and the words "Police Public Call Box" glow from it's sides. "A magic blue box," she murmurs.

"You could say that," says the Doctor, a few feet ahead. "I've always thought so."

They walk on past the box toward her house. The lights downstairs are still on, even though it's past midnight. She can make out her mother's shadow through the half-drawn blinds, pacing back and forth anxiously.

The Doctor stops at the foot of the walk. "This is as far as I go," he says. "It seems I came here to see you, not your mother. And I think she doesn't need the distraction of me invading her house tonight, not when she's been so very worried for her daughter."

Molly is feeling awful by now, but this brings out a scowl. "You really like guilt trips, don't you?" she growls, yanking off his coat and flinging it at him.

To her surprise, he smiles broadly as he catches the garment. "Aha! There's your mother in you after all! I'd started to wonder." He looks at the house again. "Say hello to her for me, will you? And tell her that Nyssa and Turlough were well, last I heard." He shrugs the coat on and without another word turns and walks away.

She watches him all the way to the police box. He pauses at the door and though she can't see his face as he turns back toward her, she's pretty sure he winked. Then he disappears inside the box. There is a thump, and a strange wailing sound, like someone scraping a saw across piano strings...and the box fades from sight. She stares at the spot where it was for a long moment, then turns and heads up the walk. She has a sudden desire to hear all those bedtime tales again–but the whole story, this time.

The door opens before she reaches it, and her mother stands in the doorway. Tegan Jovenka's face–still sharply pretty despite the years–looks worn out and angry. "Are you all right?" she demands sharply. "You must be half-frozen."

"No. Someone walked me home."

She sees the flash of worry chase the anger across her mother's face. "Someone? Who?"

Molly steps up into the doorway, faces her mother, and smiles. "A very strange man who calls himself 'the Doctor.'"


End file.
